


Series of Fortunate Events

by Poncho_for_all_Occasions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/F, Reunions, Some Unspoken Thing, To lovers?, Were they lovers?, stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 02:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poncho_for_all_Occasions/pseuds/Poncho_for_all_Occasions
Summary: The world seems peaceful underneath the stars, the thousands of lights seems to watch her. She was alone and nothing frightened her more.





	1. Something in the Air...

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Witcher and any of its works. This one though, is all me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own The Witcher or any of its rights.

It was time to head back to Kaer Trolde. Probably. Cerys lost track of time, sitting on a large root of the Gedyneith oak. It was peaceful here. Only Druids care to meditate underneath the branches of the sacred tree, and Cerys thanked the brief reprieve of silence away from the loud and rambunctious people she had to speak to and tolerate every day of her rule. It was a talent that few could master and Cerys felt pride in her patience with dealing with her people. After all, she was as thick-headed and ambitious as the next islander.

But beneath the rustling leaves of the ancient grove she sat, dragging her fingers along the bark of the tree and enjoying the breeze whispering to her a soothing melody. One that was not about plundering or raiding, or the one thousand boars some Jarl slaughtered a lifetime ago.

No. It was a soft hum of music orchestrated by nature, played by the wind and the leaves. It was calm, something that she did not get enough of. Heavy is the weight and burden of being the ruler of the Isles although Cerys is not one to back down, to take the hit and not punch back.

She had resolved most of the major dispute between the clans, though Lugos proved to be a pricklier thorn to handle especially considering he has one foot in his grave with no one to inherit the title of Jarl but his distant cousin thrice removed. She had succeeded in dealing with the Isle’s political turmoil and settlement arguments with only her sharp sword and sharper tongue. But who knows how long it will last? The peace she had fought a bitter decade for, will it crumble in a single night due to some rowdy Jarl or some charismatic sociopath?

Queen Cerys let out an indignant sigh before turning her head towards the crescent moon. Ten years of peace. Well, as much peace the isles could manage without raiding trade ships or villages. Trade was plenty, crops were bountiful, and game was abundant. For the time being, Skellige is holding its own; an independent archipelago for the most part. There were still a few rouges that would raid ships but they were caught, then tried, then punished. Skellige must be pushed into the future if they were ever going to grow, progress begets progress after all.

A sound broke her concentration on the brittle wood that had fallen from the mighty tree. One simple wisp of wind drenched the air with the scent of copper and death. Someone, something, approaches the sacred grounds of the grove. Cerys drew her sword, she never left home without it. Carefully treading the soil as to not step on any dried crisp leaves, she closed in on the smell. Her grip tightened as the smell of blood grew. Every step she took was a calculated risk. On one hand she could run but she shook the thought away. What kind of Skelliger ran from a fight?

From a distance she could see a silhouette, a humanoid shape just out of a moon beam as if it was shying away from the grace of Freya herself. It stalked on two legs with a strut similar to that of a cat. She could not hear any footsteps. The only indicator that a being was present was its stench; the gut wrenching odor of innards and blood. Cerys moved closer, steeling her nerves. The closer the queen got, the more human the shadow seem to be.

The figure stopped walking as did Cerys. Her eyes studied the lonesome entity with perplexed analysis. She was wary, might this be a friend or foe? One could only guess as much as one could see and right now, Cerys could see little.

“Who goes there?” She voiced, gauging the stranger and its motive. If it was here to defile sacred ground, then by gods have mercy on its soul.

“Cerys?” A smooth voice responded. The voice stepped forward into a stray glitter of the moon. And the previously unknown figure took the shape of a woman. Two swords, white hair and a figure Cerys knew all too well.

“Ciri.” She whispered. Cerys’ breath was caught in her throat with the knowledge of Ciri standing a short distance away from her.

The ashen-haired witcher held a sword in one hand and another blade slung across her hip in its scabbard. Her green eyes shimmered underneath the sea of light that the moon so kindly provided but was too shy to give a few moments prior. Cerys had not seen Ciri, since, well, after the fall of the Wild Hunt. A brief thank you to her family and Ermion before completely disappearing to who-knows-where while slaying Freya-knows-what.

Cirilla’s mouth dangled into a smile as she picked up her pace, taking larger strides towards the queen. Cerys sheathed her sword and smiled herself. It was endearing to see a friend after so long, especially this one. Although much remains to be said about the witcher’s attire, as it was covered in blood and mud. Cerys put a hand up before Ciri could run into her with a hug.

“I never did like your choice in garments. Do ye’ even bathe?” She asked with a hint of sarcasm, however it was betrayed by her upturned mouth. Ciri stopped for a moment before giving herself a once over. Yup, still covered in monster blood. Ciri was about to say a witty remark about Cerys taking her words and shoving them up somewhere but the queen engulfed her in a tight hug despite it all.

“I’ve missed ye’….” Cerys confessed with her arms around Ciri’s waist and her head on her shoulder. The witcher nodded without uttering a word, letting go of her silver sword to hug Cerys back. The clang of metal was lost on the couple as they relish a hug that warmed the cold breeze of a Skelligan night.

A hand started brushing Cerys’ hair. The red locks entwined in the hand of Ciri as both women enjoyed the presence of the other. The queen’s heart loudly thumped in her chest. A tight constricting force tied itself around Cerys’ throat. She was lost for words.

It had been a long time since Ciri felt a hug as loving as this embrace as the Path had proved to be cold and lonely. When was the last time she was here in Skellige without the fear of running into Eredin? It had been too long. To the world, Cirilla was dead and they could only surmise that the wandering ashen-haired witcher was someone that looked like her. The Lion Cub of Cintra was only a distant memory to the few who knew that she was even alive to begin with.

Cery’s arms tightened around Ciri’s waist. “What’re you doing here?” Ciri asked with interest, her voice as soft as the pale evening light. Usually, royalty would be patrolled twenty-four seven by men who looked as robust as their shields, but then again Skelligers are known for their outstanding capability to fight with two fingers and a broken leg so maybe body guards were out of the question. Besides, knowing the ball of fire that is Cerys, it will be hard to tell who would be guarding who.

“Thinking.” She simply replied and Ciri understood it all too well. “What about ye’? Haven’t seen or heard anything about my little bird.” Cerys moved her head to meet Ciri’s gaze with mirth. Ciri smiled before kissing Cery’s forehead then placed a hand on her cheek, gently placing her cold fingers on the scars left behind from a battle long before.

“Mind if we sit?” Ciri questioned. Her free hand came on top of Cery’s arm. “Can’t breathe.” Ciri mused before pleading with her big green eyes. The queen smirked and gave one last squeeze before letting go of the wayward witcher.

Cerys did not mean for it to be so tight, she just missed the little Swallow too much to let even an ounce of her strength falter with greeting her once again. The queen motioned for Ciri to follow her, walking towards the root where she previously sat when she admired the peaceful ard Skellige night. Ciri nudged her sword with her foot and kicked the hilt upward, expertly grabbing it mid-air.

Once she had reached the root, Cerys was already sitting comfortably waiting for her to approach. Ciri pulled out a vial from her pouch and drank its contents as she sat beside Cerys. It had a shoddy aftertaste, a mixture of week old rotting herbs. It’s not as potent as witcher potions but it got the job done.

The stars were bared only for their eyes as the sky formed a percussive rhythm when the countless diamonds beat in sync. At times one would flicker with life faster than its neighbor, never to be undone by its entourage of beauty that seemed to hold together. Ciri sat down gingerly, careful not to plop down due to the soreness that plagued her backside. She sat with her hands hugging her arms, trying to fight the sudden cold that she was oblivious of when she was alone to wander the path towards the tree to meditate.

The queen thought this encounter is a pleasant distraction, the fair lass was, because if Ciri had not grabbed her attention Cerys would undoubtedly be worrying about the nostrixes growing in Arinbjorn. May the blessings of Freya be bestowed on those who made this fateful reunion possible. Cerys looked at Ciri who chugged her ghastly smelling potion with a sour face. The witcher wore a soured face for but a minute before tugging her lips into a playful grin when she looked up at Cerys. The queen smiled back equally as happy.

“There was a cyclops terrorizing the crossroads near Blandare.”

“Ah yes, I was informed of him. Villagers were raving about it though none would even do anything ‘bout it.” There were townsmen that made a surprisingly eloquent petition about the extermination of the cyclops. Cerys was surprised with the verses used to write the petition, guessing all the villagers pitched in to devise it. “Thank Freya that a valiant witcher saved the day. ‘twas a problematic monster that cyclops.”

“Yes well, I’m no Geralt of Rivia but I held myself pretty well if I do say so myself. A quick slash here and there first to disable it, you know. Cyclopses don’t pose much threat if they can’t jump, or walk.” Ciri demonstrated a few sword moves with her hand, fighting the cold as her teeth slightly chattered.

“Hm, interesting tactic. Ye’ chose to disconnect the muscles surrounding the knees I presume?” Cerys threw out, shooting glances towards Ciri eyes before letting her sight linger on her lips more often than not. Its seemed soft, and she would guess it was if memory served her correctly. Delectable too. There was a new scar lining Ciri’s lower jaw, she inspected with interest venturing to ask the witcher about it some other time.

“Yes. Went for its heels as well. Once it couldn’t stand I went behind it hoping it would be quick but the damn brute was craftier than I anticipated.” She tenderly touched her ribs, it was bruised but not broken. Nothing a day’s rest and her potions wouldn’t fix. It was cold dammit, and every shake of her body stung the bruises. Ciri grit her teeth and silently hissed, clicking her cheek once or twice. “Got me off guard with a swing of its arm, sent me flying a good few meters.” She chuckled a bit at her misstep.

“Ciri,”Cerys’ tone became serious, if only for a bit. “Ye’ need to be more careful.” Their eyes met. Both filled with sincerity and care. Ciri nodded in response to Cerys’ concern for her well-being. Granted, because of her lack of mutations it was a pain to fight without the aid of decoctions and witcher potions, but the proper application of oils saved her life many-a times. Ciri shieded away from the scrutiny of Cerys, ashamed to make the queen worry. Really, she had more pressing matters to ponder about rather than the safety of one measly witcher. She had been on the Path long enough to know that no one would bat an eye nor shed a tear if a witcher dropped dead in front of them.

“You should have been there when I fought a manticore during my travels in Zerrikania.” She laughed a bit to try and compose herself. Maybe talking about another hunt was not the best option. Cerys pulled her wrist closer to force Ciri to look at her. She was cold to the touch, Cerys thought. Maybe the potion took a while to work its effect.

“Oh we ‘ave yet to finish discussing the cyclops, and now a fuckin’ manticore!”

“Well, I already beheaded both so it’s a matter in the past Cer.” Ciri tried to placate Cerys with a few choice words letting the pet name slip out unintentionally which made Cerys’ ears perk up, if only for a few moments. The pain from the cyclops’ blow felt insignificant compared to what she felt when Cerys’ voice tend to stray from her usual tone. A rough grate against Cerys’ throat made it seem like she was holding back yelling at the witcher. Ciri could take people yelling at her, but not Cerys. Never Cerys.

“That’s not the point! The care ye’ should put into your actions ought to be twice, no, even thrice that of a regular witcher.”  Cerys’ eyes were a story to be told. Anger misted eerily, but one could peer within and see the pain and the worry. Most of all, one might theorize that the deep brown eyes of the queen held affection and care for the woman that held swords of silver and steel. A warrior that fought nightmares and villains out of obligation to the dying art, someone who had almost been the conquest of the nightmare of nightmares and the villain of villains. Maybe she should’ve been at Kaer Morhen during the battle, Cerys ventured. “People would be saddened if anything were to happen to ye’…” Cerys stated, the thought not yet complete as her tone left something to be desired.

“Cerys…” Ciri whispered, mostly to herself.

“I would be saddened… a great deal even.” Cerys released Ciri for the second time tonight. The hand that held Ciri’s wrist shook, from the cold or her emotions, even a mixture of both. It was stressful. To finally reunite with Ciri only to fear the inevitable loss she once felt when the bird flew out of Kaer Trolde. Ciri could more than handle herself in any dire situation, but fuck it if she didn’t worry Cerys half to death at times.

“Hey, come now…” Ciri cooed silently, but the affection has gone through Cerys. While her hand was placed on her tender ribs, the other made its way to Cerys’. And she could feel it, in all of its sublime disregard for anything but intensity. The burden of it all, the turmoil, the strife. All bearing down upon the young queen, her feelings made known in the short breaths and tremors that reverberated out of her hand. May it be the weather or the cool night breeze, it didn’t matter to Cerys as it was a motion that seemed not to care about what she wanted. All it did was make her shake, tremble in her very core. Weakness. Rage. Pity. Hate. Love. A swarm inconceivable to the mind not shared by anyone but its owner. It was maddening and painful.

Cerys had fought and fought for her homeland, for her people. Ungrateful bastards all of them. One minute they hail you queen, then they try to bury cold metal into your back. It has happened more times than Cerys cared to admit. And while it was a skelligean tradition to be right ornery folk, it draws the line when someone questions your every decision. As they breathe down your neck while you try and try to gasp for your own air only to find it stolen, corrupted, simply gone. Cerys was stubborn till the grave takes her, steadfast determination makes for uncalculated tribulations. The Isles can go govern themselves for all she cared. Maybe it was the mead talking, she did drink more than usual earlier. Something in the wind made her want to indulge a bit, or maybe it was just her.

And now, to think that the one person you care for risks her life for the same ingrates. For people who see her as the cold hearted witcher their predecessors tell them stories about. She was nothing of the sort, she may have the skills from the School of the Wolf but Ciri uses it to save people. Always thinking about the safety of others before herself. The amazing woman that Cerys fought wild dogs with and made jokes with, the woman that made her laugh and cry and giggle and dance. That was Ciri. She is a witcher who wears her heart on her sleeve, who is not afraid to take what she wants. Cirilla. Why…

There was water running down the cheeks of Cerys when she finally stopped shaking. It had gone unnoticed to its host, as it flows down from her cheeks to the bark of the Gedyneith. When had Ciri embraced her? ‘By the gods, to see me in such a state.’ Cerys thought as strong arms wrapped around her in a comforting and gentle embrace.

Bruised ribs and aching joints are meander in the presence of a tearing Cerys. It was a weakness she harbored only for a few. That much Ciri could safely bet on. The crying features of one of her loved ones made her heart stop. Geralt cried once. Yen and Triss, debatable. Cerys definitely never shed tears, especially not before exploding with words and curses. Not even when a bear clawed her back. Ciri gathered the queen into her arms, letting her head rest on her bloody garments neither caring about the fact that the blood would smear on her royal majesty. Cerys palms lay flat on Ciri’s chest as she emptied her emotions through the one medium she forbid herself to use. Cerys could hear a heartbeat, a soft drum that could lull her to sleep but she made no effort to close her eyes. The contact between herself and her witcher was like a breath of new life, a new reason to create something better.

“I promise Cer, I’ll be careful next time.” Ciri offered quietly, stroking the queen’s back. Occasionally stopping to untangle a fray in her hair, marveling at how soft Cery’s hair was. Ciri felt a slow nod from Cerys, a deep mumble of a skelligean curse as well.

Whistling through the air was the music that had been playing since ages past. It was the melodious unity of two hearts that sung together. It was without rhyme or reason, without any possible conclusion to be drawn. The valiant success of one’s ambition can be linked to its core by the love imbued to the people who matter the most. The collective idea of a cosmic force that binds two people in the universe can be written off as mere fiction, but there, under the same sky where people waged war against impervious causes and flaunted greed for selfish gain, were two souls connected by a force too great and powerful to understand. Call it fate, call it the machinations of some deity or god.  As long as these two are together, beneath the millions of stars that shone both in the past and future, one cannot witness anything grander.

Silence made itself known once again and it accompanied the calm that arrived soon after. The fire had been settled if only for a while. The moon had moved its position, trying to catch up with the stars. Swaying in the breezy wind, the grass and the leaves made themselves known but was wholesomely ignored by the couple that only seemed to notice if the other took in air. The quiet murmurs of the early fawn and fauna barely dented the bubble that wrapped itself around a witcher and her queen.

It was colder formerly, but Ciri had quickly forgotten about the trivial nuisance of temperature. Only the warm embrace of the one in front of her made any viable significance. Not the pain, or the soreness, or the fatigue. But her. Cerys an Craite. The Sparrowhawk that flies beside the Swallow.

“Stay, little bird… with me.” Soft words uttered with great gentleness. “I need you with me.” Cerys added with difficultly blurting out the weakness that seeped out of her mouth. Cerys can handle the island, no doubt about it. She could even make the most out of the rancid attitude of her own people. But what else was there to do? She needed someone to confide in, to talk with about her day. To treat her like a friend rather than a queen. She was alone and nothing frightened her more.

Her reply couldn’t be faster. A hushed tone conveyed all Ciri could feel at the moment. And it was enough for Cerys. She knew that Ciri had to return to the Path, but at least for now she would be with Cerys. It would call to her again as it does any witcher, it is a mistress that beckons attention. Whether the reason be coin or glory, it matters little. But Cerys felt content with Ciri’s reply for now.


	2. Travelers Near and Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were never books that explained these fateful occurrences.

The feast hall in Kaer Trolde was laden with wine and roast. Music never seemed to stop and the stories warriors tell each other poured endlessly like blood and wine at a Skelligan party. They would see no reason to celebrate other than the simple fact that they wanted to celebrate. Joyous noises and flickering spirits completed the tapestry of what one would imagine the rowdy and the brave. It was this very sea of endless alcohol and food that Ciri found herself waking up to the next day.

She lay on the bed inside Cerys’ room, both sneaking back into the castle early into the morning before any golden rays dared shine. She was still clothed in her witcher attire, all bloodied and red. Her swords were positioned beside the bed post and her boots were kicked off near the door. She had lain with Cerys until they both fell asleep, although waking up completely alone. Ciri stood up to sit on the side of the bed, touched her ribs and was happy to find that it was healed. Thankfully the potions did their magic.

Noise accompanied the swing of the door when Cerys returned with a tray, placed on top was bread and water, a tankard of wine and some meat. A guardsman walked in with her carrying some pieces of clothing. Ciri raised her head and met the eyes of Cerys. They spoke no words, but smiled with a genuine aura which made the room’s atmosphere warmer. The tray was placed on the bed near Ciri, and Cerys also motioned for the guard to hand the witcher the garments. Once the exchange was done, the guardsman took his leave once again opening the door to allow stray vocals to enter and disappear.

“Go and take a bath. Ye’ reek of death.”

“Care to join me?”

“Tempting. Some other time, already had mine. Go now before I drag ye’ by your feet.”

Slinging the garments over her shoulder, she merrily walked to the bath barrel inside of the room which is larger than the many bath barrels Ciri had the pleasure of using. She lit the surrounding candles with a brush of Igni. That part of the room was only covered by a long divider. It had white canvases so the candles illuminated the figure behind the divider. It cast a dim shade as if it was a shadow puppet performing for its audience with exemplary movements. Behind the divider, Ciri shed her clothes one by one until she was only in her small clothes until that too was disregarded.

The blood that clung to Ciri’s skin was dried up, it had the texture of stale crumbly bread. The red on her skin might be from the monster or herself, nonetheless it all washed out as Ciri dipped into the barrel. The water was relaxing, warm and sudsy. She propped her feet up, closed her eyes and laid her head back as she enjoyed the water over her body.

 

“What’s the occasion?” She tried to raise her voice to allow for better communication. The sounds of people laughing, arguing and singing was almost too loud for the witcher when she finally entered the hall. Having eaten the food Cerys had brought her, she abstained from any beverage or meat that was offered to her by a maid or two.

Cerys gave Ciri an appraising look. She wore those clothes with grace and comfort. There was not much to its looks but more in its functionality was it centered on. And while it was far from the quality of any master crafted witcher armor that Ciri usually wore, it was well fitted for combat without the edge of weight dragging Ciri around. The coat fit into a snug embrace on Ciri’s frame, and the sleeves had just enough spring for quick slashes of the blades. Cerys had known how much Ciri detested skirts, so she opted to provide her with trousers that complemented the colors to Ciri’s coat. Ciri’s steel sword hung on her hip while the silver blade was slung behind her and as she walked the clang of metal was nonexistent.

“Somebody’s birthday maybe. Or cousin Skjord’s return. Frankly, I don’t even know m’self.” Cerys looked around the hall with all of its occupants drunk and happy or drunk and aggressive. It’s a tough environment and only the dumbest of the brave venture into the waters of Skellige. Where death lurked beneath each wave and children unfazed by the sight of spilt blood, it was a land as unprecedented as its wilderness. A place where only the strong could survive, a place where only the strong could live.

“Ciri!”

Her head moved to the side in response to the call. Cerys stood by her, arms securely held behind the back; her disposition calm and face passive. Hjalmar walked over to the witcher, his face wide with joy and eyes slightly drooping from the mead.

“How much have you drank?” Ciri wondered aloud. Skellige was famed for its heavy drinkers so it would take a whole lot to get a skelliger tipsy.

“Don’ know, I’ve been drinking since last night. Only stopped a couple of times to take a piss.” Hjalmar stopped for a moment to hick before continuing. “Cousin Skjord’s done business in Mahakaman, brought home barrels of spirit that burns the throat. I’d had stopped after m’fifth round, but damn thing hits ye’ good.” He took another horn from the passing maid and drank it all in one chug. Ciri suppressed a giggle. When Hjalmar drank it looked like one of those horses in Ofier, parched and heaving. Gulping every liquid with delight and volume that could only be rivaled by an animal’s thirst. “Come, drink with us Ciri! I’m sure ye’ have many wonderful stories to tell!” He placed a hand on her shoulder but his expression mirrored that of a peasant who was floating way above his head. His mouth dropped into a frown before it whipped into a cheery smile; his eyes likewise followed the movement of swaying from his mouth. It was amusing to see Hjalmar drunk off his ass.

“Already had a tankard. I’m good, but thanks Hjalmar.” Ciri politely declined. She placed her hand lightly on Hjalmar’s hand and gently moved it down to his side.

“Ye’ know where to find me.” He stepped away a few feet only to turn around and walk the other way. He repeated this process a couple more times until Hjalmar spotted a moving barmaid and decided to corner the poor girl in order to suppress his thirst.

Before any more of the loud patriots of Skellige could steal her attention Cerys tugged lightly on Ciri’s sleeve directing the witcher to follow her. Without needing an explanation or reason, she walked side by side with the queen. The pair was ignored by the rowdy drunks who nursed a horn or three, their laughter was only matched by their drinking; the more they laughed, the more they drank. Cerys led them to one of the keep’s towers. It overlooked the amazing hearth of ard Skellige, its wilderness teeming with life copious in its beauty and blessed in its abundance. The mountains stood strong and proud, refusing to bow its mighty peak to anything; storms shout in anger and the seas command respect but the mountains laugh in their futile effort to make itself bow. Everything in Skellige had the will of the mountains, their harsh nature and unforgiving stature made up the very essence of a skelligan warrior; from the peasants to the jarls, from its innkeeps to its druids. And to its Queen…

“They’re going to be drinking until late tonight.” Cerys started to speak as she leaned on the stone. The wind crept around her hair, pulling her red locks from side to side with only her coat keeping her warm. Her elbows lay on the surface of the ledge, a cool expression on her face. Ciri chose to sit on the ledge, her legs dangled over the edge and swayed like Cerys’ hair.

A throaty sound was Ciri’s response; something akin to a moan or a mumble. The sight was something to behold and it was only made even more impressive with Cerys’ presence. There were little to compare the awe-inspiring features of the Skelligan landscape with –simply nothing came close. Enjoying the view of the island life with Her Majesty came as a splendid boon to Ciri’s accommodation while the sun shone vibrantly overhead with the song of the wind once again making a tune that rhymed with their heartbeats. “I’ll be staying here for the time being.” Ciri started.

“That’s right.” Cerys nodded.

“I missed this. I never did get to enjoy the peace that came after a good night’s sleep.” There were many reasons to be wary of the silence that greeted the witcher when she woke. Usually the forest would be buzzing due to some natural exploit. When the dawn creeps and you could hear nothing but the sound of your breathing, something had to be deathly wrong. Wolves must’ve found your camp, lying in wait to sink its teeth in your neck. You might’ve stumbled into the territory of a young Spriggan, observing the trespasser and scrutinizing every inch of grass that was burned by the campfire. It was easy enough for an inexperienced witcher to think that as long their stead is nearby and the fire burned they were safe. Ciri had lost several horses from animal attacks and monster predation. The fire did little to calm the shadows that seemingly flicker with life in the corner of her eye.

“Your wounds better?” Cerys asked, leaning ever more forward towards the edge. She moved closer towards Ciri until she could hold her hand in hers; a comfortable grip that joined their fate as natural as snowfall in the wilds of the islands. And Ciri returned the gesture by squeezing Cerys’ hand tightly but without much needed force. Ciri’s hand was soft and it surprised Cerys. Not a bump or crack on her hand, instead there were a few scars on the back near the forefinger and thumb. It was smooth. There were no callouses or signs of wear that one would associate witchers with. Surely there must be some hardened skin beneath Ciri’s robes due to wielding the swords often. What could explain the impossibly perfect skin that Ciri wore: creamy white and soft as a feather.

“Yes. Proper sleep and food would do well for a witcher. It makes the effects of the potion greater.” Ciri turned her face to look at Cerys. The queen’s gaze met Ciri’s before the witcher even moved her head. She had forgotten about the scenery just enough to admire Ciri glowing features; enough to make her heart both blossom with care and breathe with apprehension.

There was a silence that blanketed them, though their eyes never left each other’s as if trying to figure out an intricate puzzle that had more answers than they had question. They could hear the waves beneath Kaer Trolde, the wide mountain zephyrs that screamed toward the skies, even the soft pattering of feet against stone inside the large hall. The sun loomed overhead, melting ice crystals on the roof of the keep while giving nourishment for the wilds to continue growing. They could also feel the whispered movement of the other, feeling the careful vibrations of each stolen breath as if it were a hurricane above the clouds. How Ciri’s thumb dragged gently over Cerys’ hand, and every time it reached her knuckle she would repeat the movement until Cerys’ grip tightened ever so slightly.

“Tell me about the manticore.” Cerys asked inching her body closer to Ciri until her shoulder touched Ciri’s elbow. “I’ve never seen one, but I’d read about them in a book. Is it true they have wings the size of horses?”

“Yes. They’re extremely agile too. The best way to go about slaying a manticore is to cut off its tail. Without it, I don’t have to be constantly potions similar to golden orioles.” Ciri explained the process she had to be constantly chanting in her head. “See, it was feeding on a herd of sheep that was supposed to be sold for some festival. So I met with the merchant and we came to an agreement, twenty percent of all his sales go to my purse.”

“Ah, spoken like a true witcher.” Cerys released a soft huff before a short chuckle, making it known that she was more amused than not. She took Ciri’s arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, wanting to enjoy the closeness of Ciri’s touch. The witcher did not protest.

“Witchers would do anything for coin.” Ciri echoed the words of villagers and ealdormen, she may have heard Geralt or Uncle Vesemir voice it out due to frustration or sarcasm. “I tracked it down, had to find its lair, which mind you, was much more difficult than finding a griffin’s nest.”

“I’m sure your just complaining”

“No,” Ciri whined. “A manticore prefers the solace of dry caverns or arid mountains. Rarely does one form a nest from tree bark and roots. Witcher Travis of the Bear School in The Fast, the Nimble, and the Strange page seventy nine.”

“Ah quoting sources now are we.”

“I had to climb three canyons to find its lair. It apparently liked to move around. Thankfully by the time I found it, I had already caught my breath.”

“My poor little bird.” Cerys reached a hand to cup her jaw, letting a finger glide over the new scar on Ciri’s face. “It must’ve been so exhausting. I do recall someone being called Lady of Time and Space, maybe she should’ve helped.” She grinned with intrigue, without judgment. Only an observation.

“I seldom use my powers nowadays, Cer. It would cheapen the art if I abuse it. And even if I fall while scaling cliffs, I could always blink someplace else to land safely.”

“Interesting.”

“Very interesting, you see the manticore always had a predictable fighting style similar to that of a griffin. It would fly up, swoop down, try to jab me with its tail. It went on for quite some time. Since my bolts won’t connect, I had to Aard the hell out of it. So you see Cerys…” Ciri had stopped her tale, noticing that Cerys was moving away from her reach, walking slowly to the opposite direction, being mindful of her steps.

“Do go on.” Cerys was listening, the manticore tale did intrigue her like a cat playing with a ball of yarn. But something about what Ciri had said earlier split her attention. She turned her back to Ciri, holding her chin in an inquisitive stance.

“Uhm, alright.” Ciri’s frown impersonated that of a child having lost its toy. It was layered with a bit of irritation that shook her perfect face. Her hold on Cerys’ soft shoulder rendered unfinished by the time Cerys’ hand placed itself on her chin. Ciri suddenly missed her touch. “So I parried its jab, slicing its dexterous tail off in the process. Must’ve drank at least three potions before I could cut the bastard’s tail. It was satisfying all-in-all. But I celebrated too soon.” Ciri jumped down the ledge, approached Cerys’ with one of her sleeve nudged out of the coat. Cerys turned to gaze at the bare skin that was presented. It was pale, similar to the makeup of Ciri’s dainty, almost otherworldly, perfect complexion. Along the tender skin was a rather large scar on her bicep. Two scars were more prominent, larger than any of the broad arrowheads the skelligean raiders used to pillage coastal villages. It was almost the size Cerys’ entire palm. Tinier marks could be spied surrounding the fading scars, it looked like a bite mark from a panther only three times as large. Cerys’ tentatively ghosted her fingers over the impressions, pulling her digits back once the muscle twitched. She looked into Ciri’s eyes for permission. Heat was seemingly absent from Cerys’ fingers and the warmth she received from feeling Ciri’s arm presented a regal chance of pleasure that radiated slowly from Ciri’s skin to Cerys’ palm, dividing her unwavering attention.

“It got me. ‘twas nasty the first few days of healing.” Ciri told her in a hushed voiced, as if she were afraid that the manticore would hear them from beyond the grave. “Dragged me out of its lair by my arm. Then flew so high the sun nearly blinded me.” Cerys gasped, the hand that was not caressing the bite marks found itself within the grasp of Ciri’s vacant hand. “I slashed and twirled within its maw but the more I moved the deeper its jaw dug into my arm. So I tried jamming my sword into any soft spot, any opening in a desperate attempt for my life. I pinched it’s neck just hard enough for its fangs to retreat, then nailed the fucker right in the roof of its mouth killing it instantly. It wasn’t the smart thing to do and can you guess why?”

“You’re daft to kill a monster in midair with ye’ in its mouth. Ye’d be some mess on the ground if the beast bit any harder.”

“Thank heavens it didn’t. I was free falling and adrenaline pumped into my system like a good shot of vodka. Beside me was the falling corpse of the manticore. I grabbed its mane, and right before I was a splat on the ground I blinked to a nearby lake. It was deep enough to break the speed of my fall without fatally injuring me.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Cerys whispered to herself, once again following the conversation with a spilt consciousness. They were moving back to their previous positions, Ciri already pulled her coat back on. They stood beside one another, their shoulders pressing together. Her arm instinctively moved to cover Cerys’ lithe shoulders, letting her hand gently massage the knots that held her captive in its thorns. The queen moved her head to let it rest on Ciri’s own shoulder, leaning in and inhaling her vivid scent; that of wild celandine and roses.

“An ‘Idiot’ who bagged five thousand coins in a single contract.” She mimicked Cerys’ accent just to tease the other woman. Ciri looked over the edge, her gaze measured the height from the tower to the water below; it must have been higher, her fall from the manticore’s maw. Her head retreated, gaining a bit of nausea from the heavy pull of gravity acting upon her neck. The sun lingered above them, its warm embrace felt pleasant. And there they stood, with words exchanged through time and intimacy. They gazed upon the open fields of ard Skellige, until it became a moment frozen in place with just the two of them freely moving, hands as connected as their hearts.

It was in the late morning when they had returned to the decadent hall. The once rowdy gathering had piped down into quiet blubbering mouths and slumbering irate noises as the gathered really had too much to drink. There were men sprawled on the floor and beneath tables, one even held the giant stuffed bear presumable to keep comfort. Hjalmar and some of his friends were at a table with him the only one awake. One hand nursing a tankard, the other playing rock-paper-scissors with a passed out skelliger.

“Give them an ‘our or so before we slap them awake. Some of these men ‘ave families to go ‘ome to.” Cerys had instructed one of the servants as she walked in with Ciri. “Come, I want to discuss something with ye’.”

“Lead the way.” Ciri replied. Along the way to Cerys’ study, she had swiped a bowl of fruit from one of the tables.

They walked along the now silent halls of Kaer Trolde, passing the small maze of corridors to arrive at a door intricately painted with the An Craite seal. Once Cerys had opened the door, she said “Put yer’ swords down, weapons aren’t allowed here.” So as Ciri expertly removed the harnesses for her swords, Cerys began to look for something among the multitude of dusty pages sprawled across the room. There were shelves upon shelves of tomes, scrolls, books, and ledgers. Paintings hung from the vacant walls that did not house a shelf; paintings of nature and people, of trees and witchers. One such painting was that of Geralt and Ciri’s. He was looking over his shoulder, back against Ciri’s, their blades brandished and ready to decimate any foe that came their way.

“I went out to settle a dispute between village ealdormen. Ye’ know, which part of the valley were theirs and what not. I settled it easily enough.” The queen had pulled out a roll of parchment underneath stacks of paper littered against a smooth oak study; the air around the table coughed something blurry as the scroll was revealed. “When it was over I took the rest of the day to wander the vast plains alone, with my thoughts.” She paused for a moment to unroll the paper. “And I came across a cave hidden behind these massive boulders, completely hidden from the world by Nostrixes and wild flowers.”

“So how did you find it? I mean, unless you’ve undergone a witcher mutation that I didn’t know of –“ Ciri asked, placing the bowl of fruit on an empty stool, plucking a grape from its branch.

“Oh shush, now it’s my turn to tell a story.” Cerys picked up a strawberry from the bowl before placing it close to Ciri’s face, just above her lips. She gladly accepted the sweet fruit, smiling as she chewed on the delectable taste of blissful red; Cerys smirked before continuing the rest of her tale. “I happen to chase a deer for dinner.”

“Say the word and the whole village will throw you a feast.” Ciri replied cheekily, having swallowed the fruit that was forced upon her by Cerys. Her brow furrowed, and her fingers twitched a smidgen with slight irritation. She took a wedge of orange and offered it to Ciri, the fruit close to her mouth as her lips kissed the top of the citrus. And like the strawberry, Ciri happily accepted the somewhat sour, yet surprisingly sweet, orange wedge.

“I followed the deer behind these bushes of celandine.” Cerys wiped her fingers of the juice before unveiling the roll of parchment in front of Ciri. “The two boulders had these strange symbols etched into them.” Ciri’s mouth was full of sweet orange her sole reply was a throaty groan, a tone of approval if Cerys had indicated properly.

There was a carefully sketched scene of the boulders, two hulking masses of marble or cobblestone. The symbols were marked with arrows and repeatedly drawn circles, all etched on a white leaf parchment with black granite. It was a mark Ciri had come across before in her journeys between worlds, on the run to escape the clutches of the Wild Hunt with Avallac’h, one of the many worlds also filled with magic and castles and flying broomsticks. ‘I thought the myth only applied to witches.’ But hey, who was Ciri to judge the ways of their magicks?  

Savoring the taste of orange with her tongue and enjoying the determined look of Cerys examining her face, she prolonged the answer Cerys was looking for.

“So?” Cerys asked with a muse of impatience. “I scoured every book I have on Runes and Symbology, books that I have received from scholars in Oxenfurt and traders from all the way beyond the Blue Mountains. None contained this diagram. I even had Geralt and Yennefer glance at it when they visited but even they couldn’t decipher this.”

“It’s a symbol of death.” Ciri nonchalantly replied, without batting an eyelash or twisting her tongue.

“Pardon?”

“See this right here?” She pointed to the line in the center, the one bisecting the triangle and circle. “If I recall correctly, this is supposed to be a wand.”

“That’s an outdated mode of performing magic.” Cerys commented silently although it did not go unnoticed by Ciri. Truthfully, mages had forgone the use of wands long before the first humans figured out they could perform the wonders brought by the Conjunction of Spheres; the oldest of the An Elle abandoned its use before they co-existed with humans. There were, however, a few arch-magi who create income by selling low capacity wands made from farmed elder trees infused with shards of opal or amber. It does not properly channel the elements if one is not inclined, but in the hands of a proper mage, well… A twig in the hands of an experienced Witcher can mutilate a wolf.

“It was a strange world. They were in the middle of a war against a cursed wraith and his minions that ate death, whatever that meant. At first, based on the name, he was some Necrophage or Vampire but after some explanation he was a cursed wraith bound to the earth by seven objects. I offered my services, naturally, but they wouldn’t believe someone who wielded a sword could possibly defeat some demented spirit. Avallac’h, however, pitied the wand wavers. He taught them some basic magicks while he himself gained a few for his arsenal.” Ciri sat down on the stool which the bowl of fruit previously rested. Her arm cradling the bowl while the other gestured some of the more extensive sword handling. “Sadly we had to leave before they faced off against the wraith.” Ciri paused a moment to look up to the ceiling. She enjoyed the time she spent in the peculiar world. It was dreary and bloody, a lot of coin to be made yet the people were even more ridiculously paranoid than what Radovid was.

“Sounds like a hectic place.” Cerys replied without glancing at Ciri. She wanted to travel, get away from the Isles for a bit, but the duties of the crown lay solely on her.

The queen nonetheless wrote it down on the side of the parchment, the ink of her penmanship bled through the item. She figured the more she explored the isles, the more she discovers mysterious symbols that were far from old Witcher drawings or any of this worlds glyphs.

“You’re telling me. I was there and it wasn’t all fun. For some reason my signs weren’t functioning properly. I could still phase but having to fight joy-sucking specters without Yrden was a bit of a bitch.” Ciri mumbled loudly enough for Cerys to hear. She looked at Ciri with an arched brow and a calculated look. The witcher plucked a grape off its vine and popped it in her mouth. “They were weird, the magicians there. They couldn’t truly kill it until I came along. Showed them how to brew specter oil in case they needed it.

“How kind of ye’, surely with that kind of item they can properly dispose of such beasts.”

“Of course,” Ciri responded with a huffed tone, biting a peach in the process. “I asked for compensation. Got five hundred gold for teaching them a simple recipe which mind you was extremely difficult due to Arenaria not having been cultivated there.” Ciri thought about her actions. Now that she has time to reflect, she brought an entirely new species to that world and grew them in a dimension it never existed. That is pretty impressive. It was luck that she had fresh Arenaria, preserved in stasis, to plant.  

“There’s my witcher. All gold and no play.” Cerys smiled, her playful chuckle made Ciri’s stomach cold. She always believed that Cerys was in her most beautiful when she laughed, and by the gods was she right.

The ashen-haired witcher continued her story about this world filled with strange magiks and tragic childhoods. Ciri sat on the stool clutching an empty bowl of fruit, her tale about that world flowed easily as an eventful memory giving Cerys the details as best as she could remember. The monsters she fought, the food she ate, the house she had been in, even all the romances she’s experienced and Cerys was listening with an active imagination. Her hand was busy on top of parchment as she continued to document all of the words from Ciri. The queen held on to every word, every pause, and every intonation coming out of the witcher’s mouth. Her eyes lingered on her lips more often than not, enjoying the sound of her voice while also fascinated by the story. Cerys cannot believe it, Ciri was actually sitting in front of her. As much as she liked the story, she enjoyed the company of Ciri even more. She was here with her, and that was all that magic she could ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more? Dunno. Comment your responses. Do you like it? Do you dislike it? Anything!

**Author's Note:**

> Will continue. Of course I will. I haven't edited. What do you think?


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